Review
Praise for They Never Learn
“Searing . . . . Fargo shocks and entertains while delivering a scathing take-down of campus rape culture. Fans of Chelsea Cain will appreciate this fiercely feminist twist on serial killer fiction.” ― Publishers Weekly
"Layne Fargo’s They Never Learn isn’t chilling. No, it’s a sparking fuse leading to an explosion of feminist rage...Fargo’s prose is propulsive, her short chapters urging us into a breakneck pace. They Never Learn isn’t so much a book as it is an experience, darkly hypnotic and intensely compulsive. This is a psychological thriller of the highest order, a story that seeps into your thoughts like blood through floorboards. If you read this at night, be prepared to sleep uneasily—or not at all." ― Criminal Element
"Will satisfy [Fargo’s] fans and delight revenge aficionados everywhere . . . Intense is the key word here.” ― Booklist
"Compelling...[An] entertaining, funny, and sexy thriller." ― Bookreporter
"Sizzling with rage and wit, Layne Fargo's They Never Learn will delight fans of Karin Slaughter, Dexter, and Killing Eve with its deftly drawn portrait of a woman on fire and her unquenchable lust for revenge. Addictive, sensual, breathlessly plotted, and thoroughly unputdownable--this tightrope thriller feels a bit like getting away with murder." -- Amy Gentry, bestselling author of Good as Gone and Last Woman Standing
“They Never Learn is a fierce, provocative thriller that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go. A twisty book with a razor-sharp edge, revenge has never looked so good—or so appealing!” -- Samantha Downing, USA Today bestselling author of My Lovely Wife and He Started It
“Dark, shocking, and utterly satisfying! I’m a big fan of Layne Fargo’s Temper, and somehow she topped herself with this one, channeling even more feminist rage into her complicated, magnetic-but-terrifying characters.”
-- Kathleen Barber, author of Truth Be Told and Follow Me
"Layne Fargo has created an instantly iconic character in Dr. Scarlett Clark, a serial killer who takes out abusive men and rapists at the college where she teaches. With stunning, dagger-sharp prose and a deliciously satisfying plot, They Never Learn is the feminist revenge thriller we need and deserve."
-- Megan Collins, author of The Winter Sister and Behind the Red Door
"As utterly wicked as it is empowering, They Never Learn shows Fargo at the top of her game. I can't wait to see what she delivers next." -- Allison Dickson, author of The Other Mrs. Miller
“A gorgeously-written ragestorm of a thriller. They Never Learn is a feminist powerhouse that will shock readers as much as it satisfies them.” -- Wendy Heard, author of The Kill Club
“They Never Learn by Layne Fargo is a fierce, feminist suspense that gives power to the powerless and takes vigilante justice to a whole new, brilliant level. Fargo’s protagonist is a woman hell-bent on righting the wrongs done to women, and I cheered her on through every raw, gripping word. My heart pounded, and like the main character, I was filled with rage and ultimately completely satisfied with each of her actions. Spectacular and propulsive, this is a powerhouse of a novel.” -- Samantha M. Bailey, bestselling author of Woman on the Edge
"Layne Fargo...[has] been reinventing the vigilante genre for left-wing politics." ― CrimeReads
“With They Never Learn, Layne Fargo earns high marks for a cerebral plot about female rage . . . Highly entertaining . . . Skillfully keeping the surprises coming.” ― Shelf Awareness
"They Never Learn is the perfect book to celebrate the spooky, fall season with. It’s twisted in the best kind of way." ― Bust.com
Praise for Temper
“[F]or potboilers, nothing comes close to Temper… There’s violence here, but it’s not only physical; it’s emotional and psychological — even intellectual.” ― The New York Times Book Review
"Temper is raw, ingenious and utterly fearless. I devoured every word as the story bent and twisted in ways I did not see coming. Layne Fargo delivers psychological suspense at its very best - without tricks or misdirections, just brilliant story telling and profoundly astute observations about human emotions and relationships. Temper is the real deal." -- Wendy Walker, USA Today bestselling author of The Night Before
"In her dark, sultry debut, Layne Fargo delves deep into the psychological war zone of the theater, perfectly capturing its hothouse world of rivalries, dalliances, and duels--both onstage and off. Toying with the line between victim and villain, real life and fantasy, Temper revels in its mind games, delivering twist after twist as it races toward a Shakespearian climax. The final page will leave you gasping." -- Amy Gentry, author of LAST WOMAN STANDING
"Twisty, sexy, and so believable it's scary, the pages of Temper bleed an irresistible blend of voice, subculture, and character. Compulsive reading for fans of Black Swan, Mozart in the Jungle, or (dare I say it?) real-life backstage theatrics." -- Jessica Strawser, bestselling author of Not That I Could Tell
“Utterly compelling. A fascinating look at our willingness to accept the destruction of others for the sake of artistic genius.” -- Victoria Helen Stone, bestselling author of Jane Doe
"Temper is a completely compelling read in which anger and passion fizzes off the page. It is a strong and timely story, with two unflinching heroines whom I was totally rooting for, especially as they revealed their most unabridged selves." -- Araminta Hall, author of Our Kind of Cruelty
"Temper is a brilliantly paced thriller that gets under your skin in the best possible way. Zooming back and forth between two fierce and unforgettable narrators, this story digs its nails into you from the very first sentence and continues to leave its mark long after the final, jaw-dropping scene. With her exploration of ambition and obsession, pain and desire, Layne Fargo’s debut proves that she is a blistering and crucial new voice in psychological suspense.” -- Megan Collins, author of The Winter Sister
“The theater is a tempestuous, bloody place to be in Fargo's prickly debut. Fargo's propulsive writing style and Joanna's and Kira's dueling narratives drive the increasingly frenzied chain of events that play out… Fargo is an author to watch.” ― Kirkus Reviews
"Temper is a dark and sexy ride, its characters’ passion and rage snowballing in equal measure as the story builds to its shocking conclusion. This is the Black Swan psychological suspense novel we’ve all been waiting for." -- Wendy Heard, author of Hunting Annabelle
"Layne Fargo’s theatre noir debut Temper is a suspense novel paced to make readers twitch in their seats waiting for the final curtain. Sexy and sinister." -- Lori Rader-Day, Edgar Award-nominated and Anthony and Mary Higgins Clark Award-winning author of Under a Dark Sky
"[An] intense psychological thriller... Fargo is definitely a writer to watch." ― Publishers Weekly
"A twisted tale of what happens when violence, ambition, and the taste for blood take center stage... [Temper] builds a sense of danger and suspense that will keep readers guessing, literally until the last page. Fargo’s first novel features complicated female characters and will be well received by fans of Gillian Flynn and Tana French." ― Margaret Howard, Booklist
"Fargo maintains a scalpel-like control over her characters, even when they themselves are out of control.” ― The Chicago Tribune
“This sinister, of-the-moment novel focuses on the power struggle between an ambitious actress and an abusive director, but you don’t have to be a theater buff to enjoy it. The story brims with complex female characters, psychosexual manipulation, and plenty of drama on and off the stage.” ― Chicago Review of Books
“Temper dances the reader through the tangled, incestuous and artistically volatile network of Chicago storefront theater with ferocity and ambition. Part noir, part mystery, part feminist manifesto . . . The result is a fast-paced, tempting, hard-to-put-down story with vivacious characters, an unpredictable plot and a narrative climax worthy of the stage.” ― Newcity Lit
“Temper is the kind of debut people are going to remember: intense, well-crafted, and emotionally blistering.” ― CrimeReads
“Ambitious women and behind-the-curtain theater drama? Sign us up!”
― BookRiot
“Addictive . . . The novel’s violently sensuous suspense careens toward a chilling conclusion you’ll never see coming.”
― BookPage
About the Author
Layne Fargo is the author of the thrillers Temper and They Never Learn. She’s a Pitch Wars mentor, Vice President of the Chicagoland chapter of Sisters in Crime, and the cocreator of the podcast Unlikeable Female Characters. Layne lives in Chicago with her partner and their pets.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1: Scarlett 1 SCARLETT
I’ll know it’s working when he starts to scream.
But for now, I wait. I snuck into the garage an hour ago, when it was still pitch-black outside. I’m dressed to match the shadows, a hood pulled up to hide my vivid red hair, face scrubbed clean of makeup. No need to look pretty for this.
There aren’t any vehicles in here, just some old exercise equipment sitting on scraps of carpet, stale sweat and mossy body spray hanging in the air. I’m pressed into the back corner behind a set of warped metal shelves. Enough to conceal me, if I stay extremely still. I keep my breathing steady, focusing my gaze on the peeling red vinyl of the weight bench, the small gashes in the material like open wounds.
Footsteps slap the pavement, and the side door to the garage swings open. Right on time. A young man comes in, swabbing the sweat off his brow with the hem of his T-shirt.
Tyler Elkin. Star athlete, and one of the worst students I ever taught in my Intro to English Lit class. As starting quarterback, he took the Gorman University football team all the way to the conference championship last season. That was before the rumors started.
He tugs his earbuds out and swipes his thumb across his phone screen. Music starts blaring from a small speaker set up on a crate beside the weights, a screamy white-boy wannabe punk rocker whining about some girl who broke his heart. That bitch, how dare she.
It sets my teeth on edge, but I don’t move a muscle. I can’t risk Tyler seeing me. Not yet.
Tunelessly humming along, Tyler walks to the dented mini fridge in the corner and removes a glass bottle. He tosses the cap onto the floor and takes a long pull of the liquid inside. It’s an energy drink he makes himself, with activated charcoal, cayenne, and several raw eggs. Smells awful, and tastes even worse. I tried it myself, after brewing up a batch based on the instructions on his Instagram. Then I added my own special ingredient, mixed right in with the rest of the bitter grit at the bottom.
He made a video on his “kickass morning routine” too. He starts his day the same way, even on weekends: up at 5:00 a.m., hours before his fraternity brothers, for a brisk run along the path by the river at the edge of campus. He always pauses to take a photo of himself with the sunrise saturating the background. Then he comes back here, to the garage behind the frat house, for weight training. He’ll down half his energy drink now, the other half once his workout is done, while he captions his sunrise selfie with some inane motivational message. Rise n grind. Make 2day yr bitch.
Tyler polishes off another gulp and wipes his mouth. He has full lips and long eyelashes, which renders his face almost feminine from certain angles. He could be a model, one of those sun-burnished Abercrombie boys tossing a ball back and forth in matching madras shorts. It’s clear from his social media he considers that his backup plan if the whole football thing doesn’t work out. A boy like Tyler, he could have any girl he wanted. But where’s the fun in that? It must get boring after a while. Not that that’s any excuse.
Tyler lies back on the weight bench and starts raising and lowering the barbell in time with the music. Until his rhythm slows, stutters. His fingers wrap tighter around the bar. Then they spasm, and he almost lets go of the weight, dropping it on his catalog-perfect face.
My breath catches. That would ruin my whole plan.
He barely manages to keep ahold of the barbell. With quivering hands, he sets it back on its stand and shuts his eyes for a second. He sits up, shaking out his wrists, his arms. But now his legs are spasming, his calf and thigh muscles clenching and unclenching like fists.
Tyler stands, trying to walk it off, rolling his neck, cracking his vertebrae. I shrink deeper into the darkness. It’s almost time, but not yet, not—
“Fuck,” he says, raking a hand back through his sweat-soaked blond hair. He picks up the bottle again, taking another swig, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
Still holding his drink, Tyler leans against the weight bench, trying to stretch out the strange cramps in his legs. It’s only a few seconds before he seizes all over and collapses. The bottle goes with him, landing beyond his outstretched hand. The glass doesn’t break, but the remaining contents flow out onto the concrete floor.
That’s fine. He’s had more than enough now.
Tyler’s body is no longer under his control. He’s twitching, contorting, spine arching, lifting his back off the floor so he’s supported only by his head and heels. He finally lets out a scream—throaty, guttural at first, then keening higher, turning into a sob.
If it weren’t for his obnoxious music, someone might hear. If he gets much louder, they might anyway. I step out of my hiding place, but he’s in so much pain it takes him a few seconds to put it all together—to recognize me in the first place and then to wonder why his literature professor is standing over him in his own garage at six in the morning, smiling while he screams.
“Please,” Tyler manages to choke out. “Help me, please h—”
Another convulsion takes hold of him. Soon he won’t be able to speak at all. This is the most I’ve ever heard out of Tyler Elkin’s mouth. When he bothered to show up to my class, he grunted one-word answers, slumping down in his seat with his legs sprawled across the aisle like he didn’t give a damn how much space he took up.
They never do, men like him. Well, he’s more of a boy, really. The garage’s fluorescent overhead light emphasizes all the still-adolescent features of his face: the downy excuse for a mustache on his upper lip, the pimple swelling in the crease between his nose and his cheek.
He’s a boy, and he’ll never become a man. Because in a few more minutes, he’ll be dead.
It’s risky for me to be here. I know that. I could have left the tainted drink in the fridge for him and slipped away while he was still out running. But the truth is, I enjoy this too much to miss it. It’s my reward for all the hard work. Besides, there’s one more step in my plan.
I pick up Tyler’s phone and hold it in front of his face. At first, the device doesn’t recognize him, his features are so twisted with agony. I wait for the convulsions to ease again, his body giving up the fight even before he does. After a few more seconds, the lock screen blinks away.
I open Instagram and crop Tyler’s latest selfie so only the sunrise in the background is in the frame, applying the filter he uses for all his posts. For the caption, I imitate the appalling grammar and spelling he employs.
last run last sunrise, so sorry 4 everthing
Tyler lies there panting, soaked through with sweat, blinking up at me as I methodically wipe all traces of my fingerprints from the device.
“Why—” he starts, but his throat is too constricted to speak.
I put the phone in his twitching hand and lean over him, my body casting his in shadow.
“Megan Foster,” I say.
Tyler’s eyes widen—and this, this is my favorite part. The abject terror that takes over their faces. That’s how I know they’re finally seeing me, realizing what I truly am.
I imagine what Tyler might say, if he were still capable of forming words. It wasn’t just me—that’s probably where he’d start. He wasn’t the only one who held Megan down on that filthy frat house mattress. They all did it—Tyler and four of his closest friends, half the starting lineup of the football team.
I didn’t start it. Who knows, that might even be the truth. Maybe Tyler was the second to take his turn, or the third, or the fourth, or the fifth. Maybe by the time he got there she’d given up fighting back, so he could almost pretend she was willing. He didn’t have bruises and scratches on his arms afterward, like his teammate Devin Caldwell did. But the police didn’t do a damn thing to Devin Caldwell either. They claimed there wasn’t enough proof.
For me, what Megan said was more than enough proof. True justice would have been bolting the fraternity house doors and setting the whole place on fire, burning every one of those boys in their beds. I might not even have needed to douse the place in kerosene first, considering every surface is sticky with spilled alcohol. But I can’t kill them all, not unless I want to get caught. I’ve spent the past sixteen years murdering men who deserve it, and I’m not about to get sloppy now.
So I made the logical compromise: pick one man and make an example of him. Tyler was the clear choice. Not because he’s the quarterback or the alpha male or any of that macho bullshit, but because, even though he and his four teammates all did something abhorrent that night, Tyler’s sin was the worst.
It was his Instagram that tipped me off, actually: photo after photo of Tyler at parties, leaning against walls and doorjambs and tree trunks, holding a bottle like the one oozing out on the floor beside his soon-to-be corpse.
Tyler believes clean living means a stronger game. So while his frat brothers got wasted on cheap beer and skunk weed, Tyler restricted himself to sipping his homemade energy drinks. Five boys raped Megan Foster, but only one of them did it while stone-cold sober.
Looking back, the signs were there from the first week of class—the way Tyler always picked the seat right behind Megan’s, flicked her curtain of brown curls back while she was trying to read. Told her, even as she shrank away from him, You’d be so pretty if you smiled.
He’s seizing again, but he’s gone silent now, eyes rolled back into his head. I crouch down beside him, careful not to touch anything else. It’s just a matter of time. No hospital could help him at this point, not with that much strychnine in his system.
There. Finally. Tyler’s body goes through one more bout of clenching convulsions, and his lips stretch back from his teeth, fixing his too-handsome face in a gruesome parody of a grin.
Who’s smiling now, motherfucker?
I’ve spent the past sixteen years murdering men who deserve it, and I’m not about to get sloppy now.Highlighted by 552 Kindle readers
